


Lure

by whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rape, Violence, Will does not enjoy this, a gift for a good friend, no happy ending on this one my loves, non-con with no dub-con overtones, rough Hannibal, spoilers for preview to naka-choko, spoilers for shiizakana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1529408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I have never been prouder,” the psychiatrist murmurs, “Of a single creation of mine, Will, as I am of you.”</i>
</p><p>Based on the preview of Naka-Choko, and for the lovely <a href="http://bansheegrahamtao.tumblr.com/">banshee</a> who requested, and I quote: "Hannigram non-con without the dub-con undertones, with possessive control-lost Lecter believing he has the right to do it and unwilling (season 2) Graham. We’re talking genuine cruel debauchery and just breaking Graham for good."</p><p>My love, enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [banshee_tao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/banshee_tao/gifts).



Will only winces once, when the water stings his knuckles. After that he lets the pain go, sets it back and aside for a time. Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice, if he does he doesn’t outwardly express sympathy. He washes Will’s hands clean, hands surprisingly gentle, unsurprisingly rough.

“You should be quite pleased,” he murmurs, tone striking that strange note between affection and command. Will’s noticed he uses it more, now, with him. Uses it to coax Will’s darker thoughts from his lips, to savor them as though they were his own.

“I am.”

The praise is soft, accompanied by a gentle squeeze to Will’s hand before Hannibal takes it from the warm water and presses a soft towel to the raw skin. Will barely looks up.

Fishing. It was just fishing. Offering a live lure so tempting the uncatchable fish could do nothing but follow it, blind by its own desire and hunger for the conquest.

It’s making him ill. He’s growing tired. Will doesn’t eat unless his dogs whine to remind him they’re hungry, then he feeds them and allows himself something to fill the gaping void in his stomach. He never tastes the food. He rarely eats anything more than bread or fruit unless it’s at Hannibal’s table. There, he pretends to savor every bite and wonders who their meal had once been.

That’s exhausting too.

“You are following your instincts, Will.”

“Becoming someone other than myself.”

“Or, perhaps, the man you were meant to become.” Hannibal bends to check on the scrapes, to see if they need ointment or could be left to heal by drying on their own, and Will lets him.

The man on the table suddenly looks so much smaller, almost less than a man. A flesh doll.

Will remembers watching the life leave those gray eyes, remembers hitting him again and again until just the thick sound of wet pounding filled his ears above his heart beat. He only stopped because it was hitting out of time.

He doesn’t remember the drive to Hannibal’s house, he doesn’t remember the man’s weight beyond the ache in his arms telling him it was significant.

A human being’s significance, rendered only in a hollow form and bloody knuckles.

Will’s lips part when something brushes the wounds again, something hotter than the water had been, softer than the hands that had cleaned them. He watches Hannibal draw his lips softly over his knuckles and tenses, exhales only because his lungs are pressed so tight against his ribs they’ll burst.

A hot tongue precedes the soft closing of lips over Will’s middle knuckle and he folds his hand into a fist, trapping three of Hannibal’s fingers in the tight hold.

“I have never been prouder,” the psychiatrist murmurs, “Of a single creation of mine, Will, as I am of you.”

Again, the soft thud-thud-thud of Will’s heart and very little else. He tries to twist his hand away, finds Hannibal holds him with a strength he had imagined but had not anticipated, not here. Will swallows.

“You did not create me,” he says softly, turning his head to Hannibal to meet his eyes for a brief moment. The eyes that meet his are bright, wide and dark. Somehow redder. Nothing like the calming gaze Will had resolved himself to grow used to seeing, nothing like, even, the cold black gaze of the creature he saw in his nightmares, that he had seen in the Hobbs’ kitchen.

This held a life in it Will had never seen before, it held the blood he had kissed from Will’s hand rimming the irises.

_Whoever fights with monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster in the process…_

He tries to wrench his hand away again, finds it does nothing more than pull Hannibal closer, unfurling from how he was bent to stand that little bit taller over Will, as he always did. The hooded eyes reflect a light Will doesn’t see in the room and his blood feels cold with adrenaline.

“You’re right, of course.” He says, drawing a thumb harshly over the skin until soft pinprick of blood ooze up again. Will flinches.

“I simply destroyed what you were before. What you held against yourself like a shell, or a mask, and believed it to be yourself.”

Without warning, Hannibal’s hand twists, the sharp sensation drawing Will’s lips back in a hiss, his teeth finally parting on a whine of pain when he’s turned, his hand pressed harsh between his shoulders. It happens so fast he’s barely taken a breath.

He shudders when he feels Hannibal’s lips against his cheek as he continues.

“You spent so long in that cave, William, so long watching the shadows pass you by, fearing them, doing anything you could to become them so that the fear would go away.” A sharper tug against Will’s arm. He can feel the wounds seep fluid against his coat where it scrapes them raw. “Now you see them for what they are, Will, now you are a puppet master yourself. You do not have to pretend, not with me.”

Will struggles, the position holding him nearly immobile with the promise of more pain. He manages to bend to press a hand to the smooth table, finds Hannibal leans over him to keep him down.

“If you break your own arm, Will, it will be your fault and not mine. Don’t struggle. Let me be your gauge like you’ve let me be before.”

“Look where it’s led me!”

Hannibal’s smile translates to Will’s skin where his lips stroke just behind his ear and he wants to scream.

“It has led you where you belong, Will, it’s led you here.”

He wants to deny it, wants to twist and scream and claw his way away but he’s weak, he’s so tired. Hs body shakes with adrenaline but it can’t use it, not anymore. He’s spent his anger and his power and his entire being on bringing this body here, on rendering it less than human in the first place. He makes another weak sound and ducks his head. 

Hannibal’s fingers flex against his own, almost caressing him in a sick parody of caring, before moving to grasp his wrist.

“It has led us both here,”

Will’s shaking harder, wishing, wondering if maybe, somehow, Jack would know. If Jack would know something was wrong, that Will needed help, and come here.

 _You hook him,_ he’d said.

Prison would be better than this. Behind those bars, he was safe. Safe from this.

“You are a very good fisherman, Will, you chose a perfect lure.” Hannibal continues softly, his free hand down to carefully undo the buttons on Will’s heavy coat, lower still to pull his shirt from his pants. His palm is much colder than Will’s skin and he tries to shift away again, finds the sharp pain in his shoulder holds him still. Hannibal hums softly.

“So thin, do you not eat unless I feed you? Poor boy.”

The gentle touches frighten Will more than anything else Hannibal has done, than any crime he’s committed, than the fact that he sent a man who wanted to tear and rend and destroy him to kill him in the forest. He grits his teeth tight and says nothing. Above him, Hannibal tuts.

“You are who you pretend to be, William,” he says softly, hand moving lower now to undo the button on Will’s pants, to lower the fly. He presses Will harder to the table when the other bucks, when he makes a loud sound of pain at the pressure in his shoulder. All his doing, causing himself so much pain.

“You have been inside the minds of serial killers for so long it was inevitable you would show yourself.”

Will groans, shaking. Hannibal nuzzles against his neck and bites him softly, bringing his attention back.

“An argument could be made, of course, that you have been pretending to be human for so long that that’s what you became but… _look at you_.” the words are almost reverent, like one lover to another. Will feels ill.

“Look what you’ve brought me, look how you killed him, Will.” The hand between Will’s legs shifts, draws up his body to grasp his hair and yank his head up to force him to look, to make him see.

_See?_

“Intimate.” Hannibal whispers, “Perfect. A far crueller creature than any that boy pretended to be.”

“Stop –“

“You are a masterpiece.” Hannibal allows Will’s head to drop again, doesn’t catch him before he strikes the table with a hiss of pain. He returns to removing Will’s pants again, to holding him tighter when his struggles renew.

“And you are entirely mine.”

Will gasps at the sudden contact, at how unwelcome it is, how nauseating, and struggles again. Brings his free hand back to try and claw at the man’s eyes, to do him enough damage just for the pain to lessen, just enough for him to twist away and run.

He hand disappears again, grips his hair just as tight, and this time when his head impacts the table, Will sees stars.

“Do not force my hand,” Hannibal warns softly, tugging the strands until Will whimpers in pain before letting him go again, “I have no intention of killing you before I take you.”

“No –“

He’s pressed against the table further, enough that his heart can be felt beating through the wood like the ticking of a clock. He curls his free hand under himself and buries his face against the sleeve.

“You condition so well, William, because you understand how it works. You condition your dogs to come when you call them, because they will get something they want. Your attention, your love, a treat if you’re willing to give them any. They will get warmth when you let them into the house, they will get enjoyment when you let them out to run. They come because there is a reward.”

Will feels his pants tugged lower around his thighs and bites hard against the coat.

“You’ve learned to come to me. Conditioning you for this will not take as long, the brain learns quickly to obey.”

Will makes a helpless, loud sound of pain when Hannibal digs his nails into his wrist to keep him still and leans back to get something. Again, a gentle attempt at a struggle, again, fingers tight in Will’s hair before his face impacts the table. He’s glad he hadn’t bitten through his tongue, though the blood he tastes could be from his bleeding nose or cut lip or both. He doesn’t try to struggle again.

The rest is a blur, perhaps a mercy in itself that Will has been concussed to disorientation.

He feels the sharp discomfort or penetration, the awkward sensation of being stretched, of being maneuvered to deepen the bend in his back. He knows he whines when he’s spread wider, when the stretch becomes a burn becomes outright pain. He knows that he murmurs words, pleas, soft whimpers to _stop, please, don’t, Hannibal…_ and he knows they fall on deaf ears, or on infinitely patient ones. 

Hannibal’s climax comes slow and hot and deep within Will and he forces himself to swallow down the bile burning his throat, push it to his lungs instead. Tears have soaked through the sleeve of his shirt with the spit and blood he’s been biting into it. He doesn’t move when Hannibal sighs his pleasure against his hair, he doesn’t struggle when the other finally lets him go, his arm numb now from how he’d held it bent.

Will slumps to the floor when he’s allowed it and presses his back against one of the thick legs of the dining room table, a hand up to press against his eyes as he grits his teeth and forces himself to stop crying.

_A lure, you were just a lure…_

The psychiatrist makes quick work or returning himself to the put-together state Will had met him in, nothing about his demeanor suggests any of this happened, suggests anything is at all amiss.

When he crouches in front of Will, Will lets him move his hand away, blinks his eyes open at the quiet command to look.

_See._

“I think,” Hannibal murmurs, stroking the tears from Will’s face with a soft thumb. “Since you’ve so thoughtfully provided me dinner, it is only right I cook it for you.”

Will’s jaw works. Hannibal’s smile reaches his eyes, wrinkling them at the corners.

When Hannibal commands him to stand, he does.


End file.
